


(Oh Won't You Be My) Livewire

by theaa



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, bartender!Bellamy modern au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4603800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaa/pseuds/theaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bar isn’t empty anymore, obviously, and the voice comes from the girl sat on a stool a little way down from where he’s propped on the counter.</p><p>“So,” she says slowly, looking around at all the empty seats and dark corners, “quite a happening joint you’ve got here.”</p><p>In which Bellamy is a bartender and is quite taken with his newest customer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Livewire by Oh Wonder. This was gonna be one shot but now I guess it isn't. I'm sure this has been done before, but plot bunnies are hard to resist so here is my attempt at it. Enjoy!

Bellamy wipes the rag down the bar. It does little more than leave a different kind of grime behind and Bellamy sighs, tossing the cloth into the bin and grabbing the cleanest alternative he can find. The Factory is in the dodgiest part of town and it’s like even the bar knows it; a thin layer of filth seems to sit over every surface. The tables, the glasses, the bar top, the floor. It doesn’t matter how much scrubbing he or the waitresses do, the dirt remains. Bellamy thinks it’s fitting really. The bar always looks exactly like how he feels.

He wipes up the spilled shots from a group of drunk girls, now giggling in the furthest corner booth, and glances at his wrist. It’s only nine thirty, last orders aren’t for a couple of hours and then he still has to close up. Not for the first time he wishes he could drink on the job. The bottle of whiskey on the side is starting to look particularly appealing.

The gaggle of girls start gathering their things, stumbling out the door, mercifully leaving the bar completely and utterly empty. Bellamy’s glad – he can feel a headache beginning to throb under his temples. He knows he probably should have called in sick for his shift, but the thought of missing out on wages had ensured that instead of heeding the burgeoning migraine he’d had all day, he’d dulled it with painkillers instead. And now they’re wearing off.

He reaches for a glass and starts to wipe it out, before abandoning that and just simply rolling the cool surface between his fingers. He brings it up to his forehead and hisses when it soothes the ache in his head just a little.

“I’m not sure that’s gonna do much, I’m afraid.”

Bellamy jerks his head up, embarrassed to be caught not working. The bar isn’t empty anymore, obviously, and the voice comes from the girl sat on a stool a little way down from where he’s propped on the counter. He hadn’t heard her come in, a little too distracted by the way his temples are beginning to feel like someone’s taking an ice-pick to them.

He stares at her a little dumbly for a second. Half of it is the headache, sure, but the other half is that -- well, the girl that’s just spoken is _hot_. Her blonde falls in choppy tousled waves around her shoulders and she’s got a pretty heart shaped face, a strong jaw line. She quirks an eyebrow at him.

“You’re gonna need something stronger. Take it from a pre-med student.”

Her voice is low, slightly raspy. _Sexy_. He gives her a half smile and shuffles down her end of the bar.

“Thanks for the advice, sweetheart, but I don’t think you need to be pre-med student to prescribe aspirin.”

The blonde smirks at him before placing her small sparkly clutch bag on the counter and rummaging through it. A second later she pushes a strip of painkillers gently towards him.

“Here. I’m guessing you don’t have haemophilia or stomach ulcers or an allergy, so you should be good to go. Take two and leave at least four hours between doses. Possible side effects include drowsiness, nausea or a ringing in your ears. The effects should kick in within the hour.”

She smirks teasingly as she reels off the information and Bellamy can’t help but smile as she does so. “You could have just read the little leaflet inside. How do I know you’re really a pre-med student? How can I trust you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes in mock distrust. He succeeds in making the girl smile.

“Take one of those tablets and I’ll prove it to you, Mr bartender.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow but pops a tablet out of the foil anyway, washing it back with a glass of tap water. When he turns back away from the sink the blonde has fished something else out from her purse.

It’s a student ID card – small, blue and rectangular, the logo of the local University of Ark stamped in gold in the corner, a small photo of the girl in the opposite. Bellamy thought that everyone was supposed to look bad in official photos, but this girl’s postage stamp size photo is as cute as she is. Blonde hair thrown up in messy bun, a small smile. The typical freshman optimism shining in her eyes. He thinks of his own passport photo and shudders – Octavia always tells him he looks like a homeless man - messy unkempt hair sticking up in all directions. He reads the name stamped and signed on the right of the card.

 **Clarke Griffin**.

“Well, Clarke, this tells me you’re a bona-fide student, but not that you study pre-med, I’m afraid.”

Clarke slips the card back into her purse and flicks her eyes back up to meet his defiantly. “Guess you’re just gonna have to trust me, aren’t you?”

Bellamy laughs and pulls a glass out from under the bar. “Guess I am. What can I get you?”

She orders a whiskey coke so Bellamy busies himself preparing it, feeling his headache already beginning to thaw with the effect of the aspirin.

He sets the drink in front of her with a flourish and pulls his hands sharply away when she tries to shove a crisp ten dollar bill into them.

“No way. It’s on the house, sweetheart.” Clarke looks like she wants to argue but Bellamy taps his temple. “Consider it fair trade for the painkillers.”

She grumbles slightly, something about ‘paying her way’, which makes Bellamy raise an eyebrow, but then she shrugs and slips the note back into her purse.

“So,” she says slowly, looking around at all the empty seats and dark corners, “quite a happening joint you’ve got here.”

“As long as I still get paid it’s not my problem whether this place gets busy or not,” Bellamy shrugs. He watches Clarke take a sip of her drink, and for the first time since his headache has subsided a little, he wonders exactly what she’s doing in his bar. Like she said it’s completely empty so it’s not as if she’s meeting someone -- and she doesn’t exactly fade into the background either.

Bellamy tries to not let his eyes linger as he takes in what she’s wearing, but honestly he’s a grown man and it’s hard, because what she’s wearing exposes a lot of skin – but he supposes, in a classy way, too. Her dress is electric blue and patterned all over in swirling lace. The neckline is plunging, but made softer by the fringing that decorates it. The dress _looks_ expensive, not something you’d wear out to the clubs round The Factory where all you’re hoping to do is get horrendously drunk and pull a guy. No, this dress is fancy.

But _god_ , does it show some cleavage. He jerks his eyes upwards, forcing himself not to drool or something equally stupid, and _there_ – he’s pretty sure those are diamond earrings she’s wearing. That settles it – Clarke Griffin is not from around here. Which begs the question – what is she doing in this grimy bar so very far from where she’s obviously supposed to be?

Clarke clearly catches him looking, raising her eyebrows at him over the rim of her glass. “You know, it’s not polite to hover. Or stare at people, for that matter.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly, ducking his head and taking another glass out from under the bar, just to pretend to wipe it down as an excuse not to stare at her any longer.

Clarke chuckles and he looks over at her again, his eyebrows knotted in confusion.

“You’re wondering what I’m doing aren’t you?” she laughs. “It’s ok, I get it, I mean,” she gestures to herself, sweeping a hand down the length of her body, “I don’t exactly blend in, do I?” 

He coughs. “Not exactly, sweetheart.”

She laughs again, lifting her drink and draining it before setting it sharply back down on the counter. Bellamy takes it to refill without asking. There’s a story behind this girl he can tell, and he’s particularly interested to hear it. Being a bartender means he’s heard a lot of stories, of course. Cheating wives, redundancies at work, drunken confessions of unrequited love. Honestly he could make a soap opera of the stuff he’s been told. It’s like people assume the alcohol comes with a free therapy session or something and after a couple of drinks they’re spilling their guts over the sticky counter for him. Most of it is tedious and some of it is quite tragic, but for the first time Bellamy finds himself genuinely curious to know a customer’s back-story.

He slides the second whiskey and coke over to her and Clarke grabs it gratefully, pale fingers wrapping around the glass with a firm grip. She knocks it back and Bellamy blinks.

“You want another one?” he asks cautiously, but Clarke shakes her head.

“I want to, but I shouldn’t. I’ve got to go home tonight and I don’t want to turn up drunk.”

Bellamy pauses and nods. “And where exactly is home for you?”

Clarke flashes him a grin. “There we go, _that’s_ what you’ve been dying to ask me.”

“Hey, no, I-“

“Whatever, like I said I get it. I don’t look like I’m from around here. That’s because I’m not. I live in Alpha. Well, I do when I’m not in college, and I sleep there on nights like tonight.”

Alpha is a suburb on the eastern outskirts of town. It has a reputation for old money, mini mansions and filthy rich residents. Of course that’s where this girl lives. Figures. He swallows the new information and presses on with the conversation.

“Nights like tonight…?”

Clarke sighs, running a hand through her blonde hair to drag it backwards, like it’s bothering her. Or maybe it’s just an expression of annoyance.

“Does the name Griffin sound familiar to you at all? Like maybe, the name of the senator around here?”

Clarke looks at him steadily, waiting for the penny to drop, and when it does Bellamy’s eyes widen.

“Abigail Griffin? Your Mom’s the senator? 

Clarke gives him a weak smile. “Bingo.” 

“Holy shit,” Bellamy breathes, “Sorry, I mean, but your Mom’s like super powerful. And scary.” 

“She also likes to throw incredibly dry cocktail parties with important business people and then force her daughter to attend.”

“Ahh,” Bellamy grimaces. “Not your thing?”

“Not exactly. My Mom, she just wants me to – uh, never mind. Eventually I figured watching paint dry would be more fun, so I cut loose and caught a cab over this side of town.”

Bellamy can’t help the slight teasing tone that slips into his voice. He’s not trying to make light of her situation, but honestly, it’s a little too easy. “Somewhere Mom will never think to look for her princess?”

She wrinkles her nose at the name. “Yeah yeah, I get it. Poor little rich girl, yadda yadda yadda. It’s okay. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Maybe not, but I can’t imagine having Abby Griffin as your mom would be too fun. When I see her on TV, I genuinely get scared,” he jokes, but Clarke just shrugs.

“It has its good days.”

There’s an awkward pause where Clarke looks troubled, her lips tight and pursed.

“You sure I can’t tempt you with another drink?” Bellamy asks hesitantly. 

“No, thank you. I should probably be going.”

Bellamy looks at his watch. It’s not even half ten yet. When he tells her as much Clarke just shrugs. 

“If I’m away longer Mom will start to worry. I’m just gonna sneak in and go to bed, avoid the party.”

“Wild,” Bellamy teases.

“Gossip Girl in bed promises to be a lot wilder than that party will ever be,” Clarke states wryly. She slaps down the note from before on the counter.

“For the drinks,” she says. “Now you know I can pay for them.”

Bellamy guesses that’s true, so he takes the note begrudgingly and stores it in the register.

“I hope you get home safe, princess.”

Clarke turns at the door, and from this point of view Bellamy can see just how much leg the short blue dress shows off. She looks stunning.

“I hope you remember to take some painkillers next time, Mr bartender.”

 “Bellamy,” he corrects her, smiling.

 “Well, take your painkillers Bellamy. Do as the pre-med student says.”

 Bellamy laughs and Clarke’s face cracks into a smile. She lifts a hand in a half wave and then slips out the door.

 He spends the rest of his shift thinking about her.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bellamy doesn't actually totally lie, takes on a second job, and discovers that rich people like to drink -- a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very quick update for you. Sometimes posting motivates me to keep writing, so here we go! Reviews are love, so please send some my way!

“Hey, Blake, I’ve looked at the rota and you’re not down to work next Saturday evening. Are you free?”

 Bellamy pauses in shucking on his jacket and turns to face his co-worker. Before he can say anything, Murphy laughs, leaning on the bar for support.

 “Nah, I’m just kidding, of course you’re free. That’s not what I’m really asking.”

 Bellamy glares at Murphy and his stupid slicked back hair. He wouldn’t say he and Murphy were friends exactly, but they tolerated each other just enough that Bellamy didn’t feel like throttling him after the busy weekend shifts. Murphy could be funny when he wanted to be, and they at least shared a general hatred for their job.

 “Oh yeah, how do you know I’m not busy?”

Murphy snorts. “C’mon Blake. You work most of the time and when you’re not working you’re with your sister. I’ve never seen you with a girl – scratch that, I’ve never even heard you _talk_ about a girl.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes lighting up. “Wait a minute, are you gay? Because if you’re gay I totally have some friends who can point you in the right direction. Miller knows all the best gay clubs in town—“

“Murphy,” Bellamy growls. “I’m not gay, but that’s not even the point here.”

Murphy’s face stretches back into a smirk. “Well obviously your dating game is _weak_ , man.”

Bellamy bristles at this, even though deep down he knows Murphy’s not exactly lying. He gets hit on _all the time_ at the bar; it’s kind of a side effect of being a bartender. The drunk girls, full of liquid courage, leave their numbers on napkins and receipts whilst the more reserved ones just bat their eyelashes at him from a distance. And it’s not that he’s not flattered by the attention, it’s just that he’s never interested enough to follow any of them up on it 

The memory of the senator’s daughter from weeks ago, Clarke, flashes into his mind unbidden. Okay, so he hadn’t been interested in anyone until recently. But she hadn’t left her number, had she? And he can’t just drive into Alpha looking for her either, because that would be pointless and also super _super_ weird 

“There is this one girl,” he finds himself saying and Murphy’s face changes from mildly pitying his existence to one of great interest.

“ _Alright_! What we talking? Who is she?”

He’s started now, so he might as well finish. Besides it’s not like Murphy’s really going to know that he’s sort of lying.

“Her name’s Clarke,” he says simply, wanting to skimp on the details.

“C’mon man. Brunette? You look like the kind of guy who’s into brunettes.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow, because how does he figure that? He shakes his head. “She’s blonde actually.” Soft, curling blonde hair…

“What does she do?” Murphy presses.

“Uh she’s a student. Studying medicine at the Ark.” Again, not a lie.

Murphy actually looks impressed. “Wow, you caught yourself a clever one there, Blake. And you’re not seeing her Saturday?”

Bellamy focuses on zipping up his leather jacket. “Uh, no. She has, uhmm, family engagements,” he says, remembering the stuff about her mom. It’s true he’s not seeing her Saturday night; it’s just that he’s not seeing her any  _other_ time either. God, he wishes that weren’t true. Clarke has been dominating most of his thoughts recently – he wonders how she’s doing, if she’s running away from anymore of her mom’s parties. There was something troubling her that night he saw her in the bar, and he wonders about that too and how she’s feeling. He keeps hoping she’ll turn up again on one of his shifts to the point where he has to give a double take to every blonde girl that comes in. It’s never her.

Bellamy guesses she doesn’t want to continue their conversation so she’s avoiding the place. And it sucks.

“Well since you’re free and since the boss has cut your hours next week, I was wondering if you’d want a little extra work? There’s this catering company I work for that’s short of staff for this function on Saturday evening. They need bar staff. It’s good money, cash in hand, promise.”

Bellamy frowns, thinking of his little black notebook of accounts in his crumby apartment back home and the rent money due at the end of the month. A little more money could never hurt, he supposes.

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees slowly, “I’m in.”

“Sweet. I’ll tell the manager and have a tux sent over for you.”

Bellamy eyebrows jump upwards. “A tux?”

“Oh,” Murphy replies, his eyebrows furrowing, ‘Sorry yeah, this function’s apparently super posh. Some politician’s wife’s birthday or something.”

Bellamy freezes, but no, that description doesn’t fit Clarke or her family, so he nods firmly. “Right, a tux.”

“Yep, I’ll text you the details. See you later man. Say hi to your new lady for me,” Murphy laughs, sending a wink over his shoulder.

Bellamy ignores him and steps out the staff door into the dimly lit parking lot out the back of the bar. His old Chevy is practically falling apart, red paint chipping all over its rusting body, highlighted by the orange street lamp above it. He climbs in and turns the key in the ignition, praying that it catches just like he does every evening. The windows fog up on his slow drive home and he hopes the job on Saturday really does pay well – maybe then he can pay the rent and fix up his car a little. Maybe.

* * *

Bellamy tugs on the collar of the cotton shirt for about the fortieth time that evening. It’s scratchy and too tight because _of course_ Murphy had given him the wrong size. The party hasn’t started yet – he’s just been ordered behind the makeshift bar and told to stand there until people come in and start ordering drinks. So far he’s been waiting almost half an hour and his annoyance at the phantom guests of this party is rapidly increasing.

He looks again around the room that’s been adapted for the function. It’s huge. In fact the whole house is huge. It makes sense that it’s a politician’s because every piece of décor from the mahogany sideboards to the patterned wallpaper screams ‘money’. The bulkier furniture has been pushed to the walls and is now adorned with thick cream tablecloths on which platters of pretentious hors d’oeuvres sit. Bellamy thinks he even sees one with caviar, which is ridiculous, if to be expected.

The big white door at the other end of the room is suddenly flung open and the chattering from the hall floats through. Her hears a man’s voice, stately and commandeering, rise above the murmuring.

‘If you’d like to come on through I think it’s high time for a drink, don’t you?’

There’s some laughter and a few cheers and then a stream of people are filtering through the door, all done up in fancy cocktail dresses and suits.

The girl serving beside him groans. ‘Bet you they won’t tip,” Harper whispers, ‘the stingy bastards.”

Bellamy tries to keep a straight face as the first customer ambles towards the bar. His hair is sandy and balding and Bellamy notices the buttons on his tweed suit jacket are pulling against his stomach. He slaps on a polite expression.

“What can I get you sir?”

There are other waiters walking around the party with trays of champagne, but apparently it’s not enough and Bellamy pours countless glasses of wine and brandy and so many gin and tonics he looses count. At one point he thinks a middle aged woman with her greying hair pulled sharply into a bun tries to hit on him – with her husband just behind her.  _Nice_ , Bellamy thinks, nothing like a bit of adultery. He hands her the martini and pretends he doesn’t hear.

Harper, Jasper and himself are almost run off their feet and are only find the opportunity to pause when a ringing through the room makes everyone’s head turn to where a man with curling brown hair and sharp angular face is tapping his champagne glass.

“Honoured guests, thank you all for coming and celebrating this wonderful day with my wife and I. I just have a few words to say before I let you get back to your beverages.” The man grins and Bellamy recognises his voice from before. It’s a nice voice, someone you can’t help but listen to. It makes sense he’s a politician, Bellamy muses, he’s got a way with the crowd.

“I want to wish a very happy birthday and many joyous returns to my gorgeous wife. She has worked so hard this year and I am so proud of her many successes. There are too many to count, and she deserves them all. Every day is her day but I want to celebrate this particular one – Abby, happy birthday my darling. Come over here!”

A slender woman with long brown hair swirled up into an intricate updo picks her way out of the crowd. Bellamy notices her high cheekbones and thin smile and his stomach performs an interesting twist in his gut. Murphy had been wrong – this was a party for someone’s wife, but the wife was the politician, not the husband, because Abigail Griffin was currently kissing her husband on the cheek and thanking everyone for coming.

Bellamy switches off as she begins to talk about her work. If this is her birthday, then surely Clarke has to be here. If she’s required to attend work parties it must be obligatory for her to be at her own mother’s birthday party.  _Surely_ .

His eyes scan the crowd, thankfully unmoving now they were all listening to Abby speak. There’s a queer lightness in his stomach at the thought of seeing Clarke again now, and it almost feels like nerves. Butterflies, he supposes. He hasn’t had those in a while.

But then the crowd is applauding and a woman is hailing him like you’d hail a cab or something and he almost spills the vodka still looking for Clarke over her shoulder. She harrumphs and snatches her drink out of his hand, muttering about bad service. Bellamy resists the urge to flip her off behind her back as she walks away.

Half an hour later he hears a deep voice ask for a bloody mary and whiskey on the rocks. The customer is just out of his eye line but he nods to let him know that he’s heard and starts getting the drinks on autopilot. When he’s done he brings them over to the far side of the bar and slides them across to the waiting hand, looking up at the last second.

What registers first is the well-built, dark skinned man in front of him. What registers second, but much more deeply, is the small blonde girl tucked into his side.

The guy tries to take the drink from him, but Bellamy’s fingers tighten around the stem of the cocktail glass, almost of their own accord.

“Clarke?”

It’s her, he knows it. Her blonde hair is twisted up on her head in a hair style not unlike her mother’s and her dress is red this time, flowing out from a clinched waistline, but it’s  _her_ . His stomach swoops.

She blinks at him, confused at the use of her name, but then she smiles at him. “Mr bartender?”

“Bellamy,” he reminds her, and she nods.

“Right. Bellamy the bartender with the headache. How is the migraine?”

“Good thanks. Your prescription sorted me out, thanks.”

Clarke laughs. “Glad I could be of help. Keep taking them fours apart if it comes back, remember.”

“Four hours. Got it.”

Before she can answer, the guy next to her frowns at him and then looks back down at Clarke, as if trying to make sense of their conversation. He towers over her, but his expression is that of gentle confusion, not anything hostile. “Clarke,” he probes, “you know this guy?”

Clarke bites her lip, and yep okay, he’s into  _that_ . “Uhm, yeah. We met at a bar a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh,” the guy says quietly. “You never told me.”

Clarke sighs. “I don’t tell you everything, Wells.”

The now identified Wells looks between where Bellamy still has his fingers around the cocktail glass and from Clarke is standing beside him, now looking awkward. There’s a soft expression of mild hurt in his eyes that Bellamy tries really hard not to notice.

“I guess not. Well there’s your drink, Clarke.”

He gestures towards the cocktail so Bellamy slowly extends it over to Clarke, who takes it with a quiet almost shy ‘thanks.’ Their fingers brush as he pulls away and the warmth of her skin nearly burns him even in the stuffy over crowded room.

Wells looks like he wants to move back to the party, threading his arm through Clarke’s and tugging subtly, but she keeps her feet planted firmly on the ground.

“So, uhmm, how come you’re here Bellamy?”

He notices that the easy confidence with which she spoke back at the bar isn’t as present here. He wonders if it’s the proximity to her mother – it would make anyone nervous.

Bellamy shrugs. “Work, princess. Some of us have got to do it.”

He sees Wells pull a face, but it wasn’t meant as a dig, just an explanation made light. Bellamy’s not exactly proud he has to work two jobs to make ends meet, but it is what it is. Clarke smiles, but there’s something sad behind her eyes.

“Well don’t let me keep you.”

Bellamy recognises the dismissal and it stings. “I’ll see you around?” he asks. He sounds a little bit desperate, even to his own ears.

“Yeah,” Clarke says, a little bit more warmth in her voice. “See you around Bellamy.”

* * *

He’s just loading the remaining crates of alcohol back into the catering van – there’s not many; Bellamy decides rich people drink like goldfishes – when he feels someone tap him on the shoulder.

“Need a hand?”

Clarke is stood behind him, still in her party dress, black stilettos dangling from her fingers. Her hair has been let down and it's slightly crazy from all the hairspray and pins that were in it. Bellamy still wants to reach out a hand to smooth it for her. It is her driveway so he shouldn’t be that surprised to see her, but he still is.

“Why, you looking to make a couple of bucks or something?” he grins.

“Maybe,” she says, her voice a tad petulant. Bellamy laughs.

“Nah, you’re alright princess. This is the last one anyway.” He shoves the crate a little more until it fits securely in the back and then slams the van doors, turning back to Clarke.

“So, good party?”

“It was alright,” she sniffs. “At least Wells was there, I didn’t have to suffer alone.”

Bellamy’s heart constricts a little. “Wells – your friend from the bar?”

He says the word ‘friend’ carefully, like he’s waiting for her to correct him, but she doesn’t.

“Yeah. Normally he’s not at all the parties and stuff but this was a big one so he was invited. His dad’s a politician too, it’s how we know each other.”

“Right,” Bellamy says, trying to figure out what to do with this information. He doesn’t really want to know anything about Wells, especially not if he and Clarke are together.

“He’s my best friend,” Clarke adds finally, after there’s a beat of silence.

“Oh,” Bellamy says thickly, his hand coming round to rub at the back of his neck. “That must be… nice.”

Clarke stares at him like he must be stupid, which to be fair she might be right in thinking. He had been stupidly jealous.

“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

“Didn’t expect to be here myself. My co-worker at the bar told me about some extra work. I honestly didn’t know it had anything to do with you. I’m not stalking you, promise.”

Clarke giggles. “I believe you. It was good to see you. I think I might have died of boredom if you weren’t there to break up the monotony. Even Wells couldn’t save me from this one conversation with this banker – trying to set me up with his snotty nosed son.”

She shudders, obviously disgusted at the mere memory of the conversation.

“Not into trust fund kids, I gather. No little prince for the princess?”

He expects her to roll her eyes or laugh again, but Clarke just looks at him steadily.

“No, definitely not.”

Bellamy feels his adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

Clarke steps closer to him and he feels small fingers pulling on his wrist and pressing something into his hand.

“Don’t be a stranger, Bellamy.”

With that she strides away from him up the long drive to the front of the house and the big front door. The chink of light when she darts inside illuminates the driveway enough so he can see the small square of thick creamy notepaper she’s given him. The light snaps away as the door closes, but even in the dark if he squints, he can make out a number printed neatly along with the words ‘call me’.

He gets into the driver’s side of the van, grinning from ear to ear. Harper gives him a funny look from the passenger seat, her arms crossed across her chest, already strapped in with a frown on her face. 

“It’s 3am Bellamy – what has possibly made you smile like that?”

“Just happy to get out of here,” he lies, and Harper grunts in agreement.

“I told you we wouldn’t get many tips. Stingy bastards,” she repeats.

Bellamy starts to pull the van out of the driveway, thinking of the piece of paper now stowed safely in his jacket pocket. Definitely all the tips he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So tell me what you thought, and you can also find me on tumblr over at [scuhllay](http://scuhllay.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Octavia takes a risk, Murphy has some fun, and Bellamy honestly just tries to take Clarke out on a date without murdering someone beforehand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is slightly a filler chapter, but then again I think it's the longest chapter I've written, so maybe I just like to waffle. Thanks everyone for the kudos and comments - every single one makes me smile. Enjoy!

Octavia sits at their kitchen table, nibbling on a waffle. Bellamy can practically see her laughing at him, even when she takes a sip of her coffee so that she doesn’t have to answer straight away.

‘O, I’m being serious here. When should I call her? Today? Is only waiting one day too soon? Tomorrow?  _Should_ I call her?  _Fuck_ .”

He slumps onto one of the mismatched chairs and lets the slip of paper fall from his fingers onto the table top, burying his face in his arm. Octavia’s light laughter makes him groan.

“Stop mocking me.”

“You sound like a baby, Bell. Of course you should call her, you dummy.”

“But  _shit_ , Octavia. Her mom’s Abby Griffin. Her house is insane – she’s beyond rich. And I serve drinks for a living. It’s never gonna work.”

“So? If it doesn’t work out it doesn’t work out, Bellamy. But you’ve got to give it a chance before it can fall through.” Octavia adopts an exaggerated sexy voice. “Or you can be her bit of nasty on the side.”

“O,” Bellamy warns, but Octavia just laughs again and pops the last bit of her waffle into her mouth.

‘You should just call her,” she says again through her mouthful and Bellamy grimaces at her manners.

With his face still pressed into his arm he doesn’t notice her swiping his phone and the piece of paper off the table and punching in the number, before she’s shoving the handset back to him, nudging his arm until he looks up.

She swallows and grins wickedly at him. “It’s ringing,” she whispers, before running out the room. Bellamy considers following so he can strangle her, but there’s a tinny voice coming from his phone, so he scoops it up and answers it in a panic.

“Hello? Anybody there?”

“Clarke!” he exclaims, before gathering himself. “Sorry – uhm bad reception.”

“Bellamy? Is that you?”

“Uhm, yeah. It’s me,” he confirms. She’s probably weirded out that he called so soon. Honestly the next time he sees Octavia, he is going to  _throttle_ her. Maybe suffocate her in her sleep with a pillow. He hasn’t decided which is more appealing yet.

“Bellamy, hi.”

He feels awkward. Now that he’s talking to her he doesn’t know what to say. “How’s the hangover, princess?”

Clarke’s warm laughter echoes down the line. “Not too bad. More tired than anything. I kept away from a lot of the drinks. Although believe me, getting drunk was certainly a preferable option last night.”

“You should have snuck behind the bar. I’d have given you free drinks.”

“I’m pretty sure they were all free, but the offer is appreciated. Maybe next time.”

“Yeah… next time.”

The phone line crackles and Bellamy imagines Clarke shifting the receiver to the other side. He hears her take a breath.

“You know, I wasn’t sure you’d call,” she admits softly.

“Really? Why?” Bellamy can’t hide the surprise in his voice.

“I thought you might run off after seeing the party last night. Sometimes it’s a bit overwhelming, even for me. I’d totally get if you didn’t want to get involved with any of that stuff.”

Bellamy frowns. He expected it to be the other way round – that Clarke wouldn’t want to get involved with his less that impressive in comparison lifestyle. “I’m already involved, princess. I served most of the guests, remember? I survived. Barely, but I did it.”

Clarke laughs, but it drops off quickly. “No, no. I mean, my Mom and stuff. Politics.”

“I’m not dumb Clarke – I can hold a decent conversation about the American political system. I won’t show you up, promise. Besides – let’s just take this slow yeah? Who says I need to meet your mom right away?” He's hoping -- no, praying -- that he doesn't, to be perfectly honest. 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line and for a second he thinks Clarke’s accidentally hung up or something. “Slow. Yeah. Of course. It’s just – I don’t know, my Mom has this thing, she just sweeps up everyone. You can’t even help it.” Clarke’s voice sounds far away, brittle at the edges, and Bellamy wishes he could see the expression on her face. He frowns.

“She might be mean but she’s not gonna bite my head off, Clarke. I hope, anyway.” If he ever works up the courage to actually meet her that is. It's a moot point. 

“No, that’s not what –“ She sighs again, but the next time she speaks her voice is brighter, and it’s like she’s shaken all the cobwebs in her speech away. “So, you calling to ask me out or what?”

Bellamy’s taken aback by the swift change in subject, but also with the absolute confidence Clarke conveys. It makes him smile. “Uh, sure. I mean, absolutely. When’s good for you?”

There’s the sound of pages turning, Clarke looking through a diary. “Thursday? For dinner? That okay?”

“Perfect,” Bellamy agrees, but then he thinks about picking her up in his rotting old car in front of her huge fancy house and feels his cheeks flare up. “Uh, do you think you could come by my work? I have a shift that ends around seven?”

“Seven,” chirps Clarke. “Sure. I’ll be there.”

“Okay, well see you later, princess.”

“Bye, Bellamy.”

Octavia darts into the room again, her eyes shining as she leans against the doorjamb.

“Well, did I do good or what?” she exclaims. “Aren’t you going to thank your little sister?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes and flicks a tea-towel in her direction. She sidesteps it neatly, laughing.  
  
“Eavesdropping isn’t polite, sis.”

“Shut up, you love me.”

He grumbles in reply, but Octavia’s already slipping back into her bedroom. “You can thank me later,” she calls out gleefully over her shoulder.

 

* * *

 

It’s 5pm at The Factory and Bellamy braces himself on the counter, his eyes scanning the bar. Two women chat contentedly in one of the booths, clutching cheap glasses of wine. Another guy stares morosely into his pint glass at a table by the door, but says nothing. There are no other customers, but it’s early and Bellamy doesn’t expect much these days anyway.

He throws a cloth over his shoulder and opens the hatch to let himself out. He figures it’s safe for him to head out back for a second to grab the inventory lists since the place is so quiet. The storeroom is cool and he locates the clipboard quickly, groping for the pen he’s sure is in his back jean pocket. He draws it out and lodges it between his teeth so he can open the door again back into the bar, already thinking about the litres of vodka left and changing the beer kegs. He flicks the top leaf of paper over and scans the list, striding back towards the bar.

“I must say, this place has terrible service.”

Bellamy’s head jerks upwards, pen still between his teeth. Clarke is stood by the counter, a lopsided grin on her face.

“Jesus,” he hisses, scrabbling to take the pen out of his mouth. “You gotta stop coming in unannounced like that.”

“Hey, not my problem you were out back.”

He abandons the clipboard on the side and takes Clarke in. A denim dress, a few buttons at the top left undone. Her hair is loose and natural and she looks far more casual than he’s seen her before, and he decides he likes this new Clarke. She looks relaxed and more – herself somehow. Not that he knows her very well, but she looks more comfortable like this. Softer around the edges.

Suddenly he realises the meaning of Clarke being in the bar and he panics.

“Hold on – no. I said seven right? Shit, am I late?”

Clarke laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “No, no. You’re alright. Actually, I’m early. I, uh, came to study.” She shakes the bag she’s got slung over her shoulder. “My dorm was getting pretty crowded and I thought I’d just come down here early?” She looks sheepish, her fingers fiddling with the thin leather strap of her bag.

Bellamy starts. He’d almost forgotten she was a student. “Oh wow. Yeah, of course. Make yourself comfortable. It’s a good job it isn’t busy.”

“After last time, I thought I’d take my chances,” she teases.

“Funny,” Bellamy deadpans. “You know one time you’re gonna come in here and I won’t be able to entertain you. I’ll actually be working.”

“Well until that time…” Clarke retaliates, her eyes sparkling. “Talking of you working, do you sell anything other than alcohol here?”

“I can get you a coffee? It’s not exactly a Starbucks frappe, but it’s alright stuff.”

Clarke smiles gratefully. “Awesome.”

She slips into the booth nearest the bar and Bellamy watches as she tugs heavy textbooks out of her bag, followed by several packs of highlighters, brightly coloured pens and an assortment of notebooks.

Bellamy can’t help himself from laughing. “You like stationary huh? How about an extra highlighter? I’m sure if I rummage out back I can find you one.”

Clarke tucks her hair behind her eyes and rolls her eyes. “You try memorising the structure of the nervous system without highlighters and see how you like it. The test’s in whether you paralyse the patient or not.”

Bellamy raises his hands in mock surrender, backing away from her table slowly. “Alright, alright. Point taken, princess.”

Clarke opens her first textbook and gets to work. A few minutes later Bellamy sets a steaming cup of coffee next to her and she looks up at him as he leans over her shoulder. It’s the closest he’s ever been to her, close enough to smell her floral perfume. Her hair is brushed over one shoulder so it doesn’t dangle onto her page, exposing her neck, and Bellamy really  _really_ wants to lean down and kiss it. He doesn’t, just about.

“Thanks,” she mutters, before going right back to sketching a complicated drawing of what he assumes is a cell of some sort. Biology is cells right?

Reluctantly he resumes his position behind the bar. The women from before order another glass of wine; a young couple share a short drink before they exit again, arm in arm. A few businessmen come in and sit together, looking like they’ve come straight from work. When he looks at Clarke next she has a pair of earbuds in, a small crease between her eyebrows as she concentrates, totally oblivious to the rest of the world. A smile tugs at his lips. He has the urge to go over and see what she’s writing and pick her brains for the science trivia he’s sure she’s got stocked up. But that would disturb her so he stays where he is.

At around five to seven Murphy strolls into the bar to take over his shift, the greeting on his lips stopped short when he spots Clarke tucked into the corner.

“Who is that?” he mouths. Bellamy’s thankful that Murphy has the decency to try and hide his surprise from Clarke. He gives a miniscule shake of his head and Murphy glares at him, ducking under the hatch so he can hiss in Bellamy’s ear.

“Dude – who’s the hot girl? Is she _studying_? Wait,  _no way_ – is that your girl, the one you were telling me about?”

“Yeah, that’s Clarke,” Bellamy says stiffly.

“Dude! She’s so out of your league!” Murphy looks ecstatic about this. Bellamy actually thinks he’s going to go for a high five or something, so he turns away and pulls at the strings on his apron, scrunching it up and shoving it into Murphy’s hands.

“Yeah, thanks for that Murphy. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a date.”

“Oh man, sure. Have fun, for real.”

Bellamy gives him a small smile and heads back over to Clarke. She’s frowning in concentration, her tongue poking out between clenched teeth and Bellamy thinks it’s kind of adorable.

He taps her on the shoulder gently and she starts, yanking an ear bud out of her ear. “Sorry! You about ready to go?”

Clarke glances at her watch – it looks like a man’s watch, all chunky and plain, which is sort of odd – and nods. “Shit, yeah. I didn’t notice the time.”

“Glad to see you’re really excited about the date then, huh?”

“Eh, I could go back to studying…” Clarke deadpans, and Bellamy chuckles. He clears away the drained coffee cup while Clarke shoves her stuff back onto her bag.

“Hey Clarke,” Murphy calls out from where he’s leaning on the drinks cabinet, a shit eating grin on his face. Clarke straightens up slowly, looking around for the voice, and her eyes settle on Murphy.

“Uhm, hey?”

Bellamy gives Murphy’s shoulder a not un-sharp shove. “Be nice, Murphy.”

“I am being nice! You’re the one not introducing us!” He shoves a hand out over the bar and Clarke steps forward to shake it, her eyebrow raised warily. “I’m John.”

“Well, uh, you seem to know my name already, so….” 

“Oh Bellamy’s told me all about you lovebirds, don’t worry.” Murphy winks and Clarke shoots a mildly concerned look at Bellamy. She’s smiling, but Bellamy kicks into damage control.

“Murphy, I think it’s time that Clarke and I get going…”

“Alright, Jesus Blake. Just being polite.” He flashes another grin at Clarke. “You look beautiful by the way, Clarke.”

She fiddles with the hem of her dress. “Uhm, thanks.” 

Bellamy places his hand on the small of her back and steers her away towards the door. “Bye Murphy,” he says pointedly, but only the sound of laughter follows them out the door. That and Murphy’s last shout: 

“Remember to be safe out there, kids!”

For some reason, including the way Clarke’s cheeks flush red, he doesn’t suppose Murphy’s talking about protection from petty street-crime.

Way to stay classy.

 

* * *

 

 Clarke’s fingers brush gently against his as they walk towards their destination for the evening, and Bellamy’s highly aware that the more time they spend not talking, the more awkward this becomes. He wants to take her hand as well, but he’s not sure if that’s too bold, so he clears his throat instead.

“So, uhmm, did your mom at least enjoy her birthday party?” he asks, his wild search for a conversation topic falling on possible the lamest subject possible – the Mom she’s clearly uncomfortable talking about. He expects Clarke to flinch or evade the question, but she shrugs.

“I think so. I mean I didn’t really get to talk to her after. I haven’t heard that she didn’t.” 

“So you don’t see her much?”

“No, not really. She’s super busy, obviously, and I’m at college. I’m only home a couple of times a month.”

“I’m sorry, that must suck.”

“It is what it is,” she says, her tone very matter-of-fact. “It’s funny – I actually see Marcus more than my Mom. My step-dad. He sometimes drops in for lunch or coffee, or whatever. I think he tries to make up for the time my mom doesn’t have.”

Bellamy thinks _fuck it_ , and reaches for her hand, curling his fingers around her palm. He feels Clarke squeeze back gently and the awkwardness he’d feared evaporates a little. “Marcus? The guy giving the speech at the party?”

“Yeah. Marcus Kane. He and Mom are married but Mom kept her old name because it was the one everyone knew her with, you know? It was always Dr Abby Griffin, even before she started getting involved with politics.”

Bellamy nods and Clarke bites her lip. “Sorry, I’m boring you. What about your family? It’s unfair, everyone always knows my mom before I know anything about them.” She nudges him with her shoulder. “What’s the Blake family like?”

There’s a fight to keep his expression neutral, just like there is every time someone asks about his family. It’s a forced habit, years out of date now anyway, but still he feels his shoulders tense up. Clarke’s looking up at him expectantly, her eyes wide and trusting, so he tells himself to relax. _Clarke’s just asking_ , _no harm in that_.

“Uhm, the Blake family is just my sister and I." 

There’s a pause, but then he feels Clarke’s thumb brushing the back of his hand, soft light fanning touches of skin. “Do you mind me asking?”

Bellamy focuses on the feeling of her skin against his, and if it’s meant to be comforting then it succeeds. He’s spent too long being caged off about his family.

“You want to know about my parents don’t you?”

“Not if you don’t want to tell me.” She tries for a light smile. “You can always tell me you were abducted and raised by aliens if you want -- tell me to fuck off.”

That surprises a laugh out of him, makes him relax enough that the truth is easy to say. “I never knew my Dad. Mom always said ‘good riddance to bad rubbish’ and I’ve never really had cause to disagree. My sister’s a bit more complicated, I guess. She, uh, wasn’t planned? Anyway, so no step-dad either. So it’s just me and Octavia. My sister.” It’s still weird to talk about it so upfront, so his sentences come out stilted and jarred. He pauses to gather himself again, and Clarke doesn’t break step beside him. “And my mom – she died when I was eighteen. Octavia was thirteen. Cancer,” he finishes. His throat is tight. He has to fight to swallow. This is not what he expected to be talking about on the first date. 

He’s only just cracked open the lid on the can of worms that is his family and his upbringing, but it’s still a hell of a lot to admit to. A touch on his wrist makes him snap back to reality, to the sidewalk disappearing under his feet, to Clarke’s denim dress brushing against his own faded jeans.

“Thanks for telling me,” Clarke says, her voice gentle. “I appreciate it.”

And that’s all she says. No pitying, no empty words of comfort or sympathetic, awkward glances. He’s absurdly grateful.

“One skeleton down, many more in the closet,” he jokes, and Clarke’s lips twitch.

“Is that a promise?”

He looks down at Clarke -- and he trusts her. He doesn’t even know her, but it’s an aura she gives out, something readable in the dimple in her cheek, or the laughter lines around her eyes. 

“It can be if you want.” It's like giving her a library book and telling her she can have it on loan any time. Promising little pieces of himself. 

“Some other time, maybe,” she drawls playfully, “now I know you’ve got the whole tall, dark, handsome _and_ mysterious thing going on, I’m pretty good.” 

Bellamy gives her shoulder a slight shove, but Clarke snags her fingers in his leather jacket to keep her balance and just grins at him. He enjoys this – the back and forth that slides so easily between the heavy conversations. It’s rare, he knows already, to have them both. Clarke’s arm snakes around his middle and stays there, clinging to his coat.

They round the corner of the last block, and Bellamy frets suddenly that his plans and the favours he’s pulled in have fallen through - - but no, there’s Jasper standing in front of the deli where he works, a brown paper bag in his hand. 

He catches sight of them and shoves his hand in the air, waving frantically and obviously in their direction. Clarke looks confused and a little alarmed by the amount of enthusiasm Jasper’s managing to convey in just his arm muscles.

“What have you got planned, Bellamy?”

“Haven’t you ever heard? Curiosity killed the cat, princess.” 

“Ah, but satisfaction bought it back, Bellamy – so satisfy me.” 

He gives her a filthy smirk, can’t help it, the wording’s too easy. “Oh don’t worry princess, I intend to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So -- there you have it for this chapter. Come yell about this fic (maybe) or maybe about Bellarke and the 100 in general on my tumblr [scuhllay](scuhllay.tumblr.com) \-- or in the meantime please do leave your thoughts and comments! They genuinely encourage me so much and I love and appreciate them a lot. So yeah. Peace.


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